


Drinking Games

by Moiststar



Series: Wade Into the Water [1]
Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Drug Use, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:01:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27524275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moiststar/pseuds/Moiststar
Summary: After declining a threesome with his wife while sequestered on a yacht, Tom starts to unravel. Luckily, Greg is there to offer his support.
Relationships: Greg Hirsch & Tom Wambsgans, Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Series: Wade Into the Water [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2042446
Comments: 14
Kudos: 29





	Drinking Games

**Author's Note:**

> i can't believe my first fic is tom/greg. i've been so inspired by the geniuses on tumblr and here. doubtless these ridiculous, precious two have helped my sanity as much as they've hurt it. may be a twoshot who knows.

Alone and pacing, phone in hand, Tom is waiting for the word ‘seen’ to appear under his text so he can feel formally invited to burst into the room of the one person he needs to feel better. The briny, salty smell he now associates with luxury maritime vacations on the Riviera or island hopping in the Mediterranean instead of family trips to the Atlantic mix together with the feverishly sweet smell of Scotch. Both scents cling to the fine linen of his clothes and his skin, lightly misted with sea spray. If he tries hard enough to stand still, he can feel the incessant rocking of the sea together with the growing unsteadiness of his legs. None of this is comforting, none of this is familiar, none of this is what he expected his marriage to be. 

Truthfully, Tom struggled to admit to himself how far from ‘the plan’ with Shiv they had drifted. Or how little control he had on its course to begin with, if he ever had any. Had he? The excruciating exercise of self reflection while sober left him no choice but to raid the cupboards of the ship and in an act of shocking Kendall-like desperation he downed a half of one bottle of Talisker. 

Unable to return to Shiv, he skulked around the deck, sneaking sips from the bottle he carried like a weapon. But the more he drank, the more he craved company and ended up sitting with his feet dangling in the cool water over the course of nearly an hour of self pitying. Needing to go to Shiv for any meaningful comfort, he messaged the next best person. The circle of plush carpet he had now tread over while mulling the same angry doubts and fears for a solid three minutes had become faintly pliant to his dock shoes before a reply came. His mind registered the time on his phone (1:55) as a percussive beat in the empty hallway.

“Hey cokewhore, did you bring some blow with you?”

“uh yeah, why?”

Tom doesn’t pause, but strides straight to the door, knocking so loudly it must have spooked Greg, because he appears in the door frame slightly sweaty and red, awkwardly positioning the hand clenching his phone in front of his… Calvin Klein’s? He surveys the room, notes the compromising scene on the wide screen TV, Greg’s vape pen on the nightstand. 

“Hell Greg, you didn’t need to buy new lingerie just for me.”

Giving him an unnecessary clap on the back, the touch so familiar it almost hurts, Tom immediately settles himself on the undone bed. The whiskey bottle is still in his hand, condensation nearly forming from his sweating palm, as if it’s a talisman. The other palm holds the angular curve of Greg’s shoulder bone, thinly clothed with a white undershirt, as if it’s a curse. Beyond the next several chess moves, he’s not sure what to do to stop feeling the keen flame of needing Shiv ignited tonight. 

“Put your dick away Greg and catch up with me,” waving the talisman in the air.

Greg gawks in the doorway but gives way and ends up as fucked up as every social interaction has ever been in the family, side by side with Tom on the bed. The movie he had been watching, paused at a sex scene he found unbearably alluring, was flicked back on and offered background noise to Tom’s joking, mostly the usual insults, while Greg swilled back the whiskey. Excuses were offered every swig or so, but both were too used to the taste of competition to back down, so by the time Greg had downed more shots of whiskey than either of Tom’s palms could count, the latter called the game done. Ultimately it was a tie, both had lost dignity in the form of embarrassing stories of past fucks, ill timed jokes and comebacks, and accidental stuttering. 

Tom had enough additional shots from the bottle, now an almost equal mix of his and Greg’s spit with whiskey, to pull a move he had often been on the receiving end of and so he took the bottle back and straddled Greg’s waist to place it on the nightstand. Somehow this seemed no more strange than sitting across a dinner table from one another with napkins over their heads, than mutually using another coworker as their human footrest. As if there was no other reaction he could produce, Greg’s mouth parted in surprise. 

“So where’s the coke then, pigfuck?”

* * *

The first line is Tom’s. Line or more like the pile he made on Greg’s chest and then tried to form into a line with the edge of an iPhone. So it’s not a lot more difficult than usual for Greg to remain sexually disengaged from … their dynamic. “Just let me try it, for Christ’s sake look at the yacht we’re on”, works as an excuse precisely because of how Tom works. The macho, jovial straining smile in front of whatever bullshit falls out of his mouth always seems to be enough. 

The second is Greg’s. Snorted from the neater pile on top of Tom’s fist, between the meat of the thumb to the knuckle of the first finger. Thighs straddling thighs, their heads bent close together. His gaze flicks up, his pulse slow and hard in his chest, and realizes how dangerously close they are, as he inhales. The last three nights he had spent this close to someone else, began on dating apps and ended within an average span of 48 hours, flicked through his mind briefly. Awkward first meetings, fleeting pleasure for him, ignored messages after. The come up had him almost instantly hard. 

“Wait, can you pour another—,” he started to look for the baggie, resting his hand on Tom’s bicep.

“Say please first.” 

The hand in his hair, pulling with the perfect amount of force to turn him on instead of piss him off, dragged his gaze back. Now he flashed back to how it was at first, when he couldn’t tell exactly how tenuous Tom’s grasp could be on control at any given time. Licking his lips quickly to stifle the quiet _fuck_ he was about to whisper only confused him further, softly bucking his hips against Tom. Don’t look, that didn’t happen.

“Dude, wh…” 

Tom laughed mockingly. The pressure on his scalp softened, but before Tom could escape and offer some ultimate excuse to end whatever the fuck this was, he grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him back in, and messily trapped them in a kiss. The kind that was restarted several times before sticking, before being wetly pulled apart again. And again. And again.

You bastard. His own monologue or Tom’s. He couldn’t tell anymore. The coke made a magic mirror to their actions, they could pull off the most seamless undressing, seducing, fucking here. They had every knowledge of the other and none of their own faults here. Down to briefs, in the body Greg could have never imagined feeling as fuckable as he did here, even if it was wrong, when had he ever done anything the right way. 

Tom dragged half painful love bites down his chest, but Greg couldn’t stop thinking. This whole thing kept switching from so bad it was good, so good it was bad, so good he wanted to just give up and come without even being touched, and so bad he wanted to somehow erase his entire existence. Fuck. He needed another hit, or more of the whiskey Tom brought, or Tom back here closer to him. He thought of Kendall, regretted it, and thought of Kendall’s regrets.

* * *

“Tom.”

He paused, one hand resting on the soft skin of the other’s hip, with a thumb tucked under the tight band of the surely new Calvin Klein briefs (grey, an unfortunately naive choice which allowed precum to be made visible), and allowed himself to finally look up at Greg. Look up at the flushed cheeks, the perspiration on the crown of his head where wisps of thick dark hair had been recently combed aside. The straight, strong line of his nose leading to his mouth, lips swollen by Tom’s, perpetually parted as if in shock at the world happening around him. 

What was the end goal here? In the illustrious oak paneled corridor of his mind responsible for future decision making, the whiskey, coke, and power high combination made the illusion of continuing _this_ (the word ‘affair’ was quickly shoved aside, replaced by _tryst_ , to be pushed away again, mind a mile a minute through molasses) a good idea. Another bloodkin of the king Roy, surprisingly smart enough to survive this long at least — the reminder of Greg’s attempted betrayal flitted into his memory and stung him, an outrage he had the luxury of unleashing directly unlike with Shiv — why not? Being wanted, using seduction to control someone, wasn’t that what he wanted? Especially someone who deserved it? Didn’t he deserve to feel fucking _good_ for once? Why let Shiv be the only one to make the most of whatever their marriage had turned into. Besides, he refused to make a waste of how fantastically, painfully hard he was now. 

Tom mentally stumbled through his justification as to why his mouth was inches away from his cousin-in-law’s cock, so close to undressing him completely. Greg’s eyes, coke dilated and slurred, so different from his usual doe eyed stare, showed a more honest, open pleasure than he had ever witnessed. At least since college, cloudy visions of frat parties floated momentarily to the surface—

“What about... you know?” 

The blood rushed to Tom’s face, it was getting more and more difficult to make logical sense of the situation. Why did he have to ask? Who stops mid-way through a free blowjob? The pristine walls of the bedroom shrunk to either side of his field of vision. He could still leave, still make this mean nothing, be nothing. It could be played off, it had happened enough to him to make it the same poorly planned game of chicken this time. 

“Christ, Greg. What do you think?” 

“I... I don’t know, I just thought I should ask before, you regret it or...”

Well, as a matter of fact, tonight my wife and I were going to have a threesome with the girl who you traumatized with your feet. He thought of saying that, but the pain circling in his chest leaving wounds the size of hailstones where words should be made him shove them aside, burn them, create the _need to make this real_ , make this something he couldn’t undo so easily. The feelings of inadequacy, of rejection by his _wife_ as a husband, as a man, as the front man in their ‘power couple dynamic’, had to be blotted out with something even heavier. 

Leveling his gaze with Greg’s, tying their breaths together in a heavy bow on the center of the smooth hillside of his torso, memorizing the dimples that made him look so damned easy, he asked in the same way he’d asked, _would you kiss me if I asked you to_ ,

“Do you want this?”


End file.
